


nothing

by protectoroffaeries



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Half Porn Half Character Study, Made Up My Own Deets About the Raven Queen’s Backstory, Memory, Porn With Plot, To An Extent, Unrequited Love, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 09:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15838080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protectoroffaeries/pseuds/protectoroffaeries
Summary: “Whatdoyou know?” he asks, sounding somewhat like a petulant child. And in that moment, she comes to a realization she has been avoiding since she chose him over his sister, a potential that she overlooked. She has affected blankness and neutrality for so long, yet this brings upon her a numbness that she has not felt in two ages. But her Champion is still looking at her for answers, blissfully unaware of her unwanted revelations.“Nothing,” she tells him, her voice as empty as was her first whisper to his anguished screams. “Truly, I know nothing.”





	nothing

**Author's Note:**

> don’t read this if you’re under 18

Her Champion dies, as it is the order of things. As it is his destiny to stay with her until either of them fades from existence. As it is their deal. 

In the beginning, he sleeps, for a period of time long enough for her to take notice. It spans mortal weeks, though she knows not how many, for she does not keep time as they do on the Material Plane. He should not need to sleep. She worries not for him, though; it must’ve taken pieces of his soul to fight the Whispered One, to say goodbye to his loved ones, to live beyond living. Even in her realm, healing happens faster in slumber. 

She keeps him in her bed, as she promised she would after the first time they had sex. It is a tangle of shadows nestled on the outside of the webs of Fate, and she sits by it in her free moments over the course those early weeks, watching over him as he sleeps. Her Champion does not toss in his sleep, nor does he writhe, nor scream, nor speak. He moans on occasion, some in passion and some in despair, and he rolls over less frequently. 

When her Champion finally wakes, the Matron of Ravens is present. 

He is naked because there is no comfort in armor, and because people should be allowed to sleep in peace, especially if life will not give them such luxuries when they are awake. His back is to her, inky hair lost to the dark silk of her sheets. She watches the muscles on his back roll beneath his skin as he stretches them, and she imagines him with wings, ones that start between his shoulder blades and surpass the length and width of him in their height and span, with feathers like moonless nights and spider’s silk. She could give them to him with a touch, but the growing pains might send him back into his slumber, and more importantly, she knows he does not like to be marked without consultation. So she keeps her twitching fingers on her lap, and let her gaze wander over the rest of him. 

Her Champion rolls his back, twists his hips, and grabs his each of his ankles in turn to stretch his legs. He then props himself up on one arm and looks around, and when he peers over his shoulder, she can pinpoint the moment he notices her by the way his eyes widen. He remembers. He has brushed off the edges of sleep, and he remembers that he is dead. 

“My Lady,” her Champion says groggily, but he punctuates it with a respectful dip of his head. He mumbles something under his breath, a vaguely surprised  _ no mask _ , and she declines to comment. He does not like her mask, so she will not wear it around him, barring a formal setting. 

“My Champion. How do you feel?” 

He rolls over so that he’s facing her, and then he glances down at himself with a frown, as if he only just realized he is uncovered. She watches him search for something to cover himself with, but she keeps no blankets or the like in her bed. She offers him clothes, but he shakes his head, clearly not awake enough to get dressed and not modest enough to let it trouble him for more than a few moments. 

“I feel lighter,” he says in response to her initial query. “How long have I been asleep? The last thing I remember was my mother…” Her Champion trails off with the ghost of a smile about his mouth. She would not say it, but she quite pleased that she could ease his passing

“A long time by your standards. Many weeks. Months. Perhaps years.” 

_ “Years?” _

She does not smile; it is rarely her way. But she she does feel some small amusement at the incredulous expression on his face. “It takes no small amount of energy to accomplish all that you and yours did.” 

Her Champion snorts. “So have they been asleep for years, too, then?” He does not specify who  _ they  _ are, either. She wonders if the pain will ease enough for him to say their names while he still remembers them. She considers writing them down for him, for she can imagine him ages from now, untouched by Material time yet ancient in his manner, trying to recall the shape of his sister’s name. 

She struggles to remember her own sister and decides that she will. She will preserve their memory for him, for he and Vox Machina will never again walk in the same lands. 

But she does not tell him this. He needn’t be troubled with such things yet. “What is the mortal expression? ‘I will sleep when I am dead’? They will get their rest when they pass.” 

“I’m surprised you know that expression,” her Champion says, and he is not subtle, but she lets him redirect the conversation all the same.

“You are not the only man with whom I interact,” she says. She declines to tell him that he is, however, her favorite. It should go without saying; there are no others kept in her bed. 

He raises an eyebrow, his smile returning in full force, resurrected in the moment by a power beyond memory that she does not know. She finds it odd that she missed his smile. It is not as if he often directed it  _ at  _ her in life, or even did it in her presence at all. “You’ve been cheating on me?” he says, and there is no mistaking his teasing tone. 

It is on the tip of her tongue to say that if anyone has been cheating, it is him. She thinks of the shopkeeper and of his companion with the antlers, and her gaze catches on the ink on his upper arms, stained forever with the memory of the latter. But  _ her _ mark is on his chest, and he is with  _ her _ . Besides, there was no commitment of that sort between them - and she knows from observing that her Champion is careful in the manner he commits, and he does not take kindly to teasings about it. 

“No, my Champion,” she says instead. “I would not cheat on you.” For some reason, this causes the smile to drop from his face. 

“What am I now, my Lady?” he asks.

_ You are potential,  _ whispers the logic within her, the part that is drawn to the strands of Fate, that sees the webs of happenings, that makes certain lives are cut on an image, not a number. But he has achieved much, and he has much more to do, and it is not the same 

_You are dead_ , whispers her practicalities, the part of her that knows the ebb and flow of energy between planes, that understands the necessity and the beauty of a harsh, cold winter, that carries the curses of gods and mortals alike. But he has been dead, and he has been alive, and it is not the same. 

_ You are mine,  _ whispers a selfishness that has been dormant, the part that would hoard the magics of her great age, that would usurp the natural order, that would have temples erected and names given and lives twined to her service. But he has been hers, and he has been free, and it is not the same. 

“I cannot say, my Champion.”

“Why not?”

“You have served me well in life. I will not force you do the same in death, although I would enjoy your company. You may choose where you go and what you become.” She does not think he will leave her yet, but she knows he would have to go immediately if she tried to make him stay.  

He blinks as if he did not expect that response. “Where else can I go? Can I go to where my mother is?” 

“You can visit, but you cannot stay.” His expression falls. “I am sorry. It is not my doing, only those lands will bar you as one touched with undeath, even if it was done by my hand. Where your mother finds her peace is older than I am, and it is beyond the powers of my realm.” She almost tells him that his visits are limited, that one day he will not be able to sneak in any longer. He made his life in the shadows. She trusts he will be able to make his death the same for as long as it matters.

“And I can’t go back to…” He does not bother to get to the end of his suggestion. She will not send him home again. She has already broken too many rules for him. 

“What do I do if I stay with you?” he asks.

“Whatever you please. Most of my Champions become reapers.” She does not tell him that she could not imagine him as one. 

“What if I just want to lay here?” he says, joking.

“Then you may,” she says, not. 

Her Champion is not a man inclined to inaction, and she can see the hesitation flicker over his features. He wants to rest, of course he does, but it is not in his nature. “I don’t have to decide right now, right?” 

“No. I can find other things to occupy you, if being a reaper is not to your tastes.” She means this sincerely, but he deliberately chooses not to take it as such. He pushes himself off of the pillows and onto his knees, and he gives her not a smile, but a suggestive grin. 

“Oh, can you? What sorts of  _ things?” _

She cannot recall ever physically rolling her eyes since she ascended, but her Champion drives her toward it at times. “I believe we already determined that if you want to have sex, all you have to do is ask.” 

“This is me asking,” he says and, notably, does not  _ ask.  _ She gives him a look that conveys this, and his grin gets wider. There is a spark to him yet. “May I  _ please _ be graced with the  _ honor _ of engaging in  _ intercourse _ with you, my Lady?” 

She gives a slight smile despite herself, just the upturn of her lips at the corners. It would shock any of those who have walked beside her since she ascended, but her Champion, who has seen it a few times now, only basks his ability to draw visible amusement from her. 

“Since you asked so nicely,” she says loftily, playing off of his teasing.

He collapses into the pillows and rolls until he is flat on his back, a gesture that reminds her of a dog eager for attention. She rises from her seat and waves a hand over her torso. Her robes melt from her form in a flashier display of magic than she tends to indulge, and a certain kind of desire flares in her Champion’s eyes. It is something of an understatement to say he  _ likes _ magic. 

He reaches for her as soon as she places a hand and a knee on the bed, and as his hands find purchase on her hips, he flinches a little before holding her more firmly. “You’re not cold,” he says. There is a question beneath his statement, but he does not ask it. He already knows the answer.

“No, my Champion. You are the cold one now.” And he is. His skin is icy to the touch, although it does not phase her like her chill once phased him. She does not flinch or shiver in the cold and much prefers it to the heat. Her Champion feels better with his fingers like icicles, for as fond as she was of their time together before his passing, he was far too warm, his heat almost blistering her skin. She is not one to complain about such things like he is, though.

He is disquieted, she can tell, but he says no more about it. “What do you want, my Lady?” he asks instead, focusing his gaze on her face and, quite pointedly, not on where he is touching her.

He is always so eager to please behind closed doors, which is a pleasant change from dealing with him anywhere else. 

By way of answer, she straddles him, knees resting on either side of his thighs, and then she has to scoot forward a little to kiss him on the mouth comfortably, for (much to her vexation) she is shorter than him when she claims the form she owned as a mortal woman. Her Champion leaves one hand on her hip, but the other trails the curve of her body until it reaches her breast. He holds her breast, idly brushing his thumb over the nipple, but most of his attention is on the kiss she started.

Her Champion kisses not like worship. He is a curious dichotomy; he submits to her, but he does not put her on a pedestal. She is not a goddess to be venerated under his tongue. He kisses her as if he is telling her to throw away the trappings of the universe and let it all unravel at her feet. She often wonders if this is how the chaotic fey feel, powerful but unbound to responsibly, and she wonders if the elves he was reared with taught him this, or if he was born with this kind of wild lawlessness in his blood. 

He still feels like he should stop to breathe, a habit which she hopes he will soon learn to toss aside. Although, she does enjoy how he looks up at her when he is panting, a slightly dazed expression on his face. She misses the flush in his cheeks that use to accompany it. 

“You’re really beautiful,” he says, completely unprompted, and it gives her pause. Not because he is the first to call her beautiful - countless people have said the same, which is why she started to wear her mask - but because of how easily, how casually, he says it, as if he has nothing to lose or gain under his words. 

He must notice her pause, because he opens his mouth to say something else, but she beats him to it. “Thank you. So are you.” 

He stares at her for a handful of moments, wide-eyed as if he did not expect her to respond as she did. And then when he regains his sense, he laughs and says, “You don’t have to lie to me, my Lady.” 

“I have never lied to you.”

He does not believe her, she can tell by the way his brows raise and his eyes narrow, but he does not press the issue. He coaxes her into another kiss instead. 

And his lips are cold, and his tongue is teasing, and she feels the intoxicating call of  _ letting go  _ from atop a monolith of principles and she knows why  _ taste of freedom  _ is a mortal turn of phrase. She has her command of her Champion not by bargain but by his will, and she sets what has governed her since her youth aside. At least, for this moment. 

Her Champion’s hands move, both of them, tracing the curves and the angles of her, drawing mindless patterns with his fingertips across her chest and her abdomen, her arms, her flanks, her thighs, her bottom, and then he slides all his fingers in her hair. He does not dare twist, pull, or direct, only combs his fingers through, and if she could be bothered think beyond the moment, she would make a note to have him do her hair eventually. 

He pulls away again, but before she has time to be disappointed, he takes a huge breath, and then he is back to kissing her. His hands drop from her hair, but they find a new home between her legs. He teases by running his fingers through the hair above her sex, but when she nips his lip with her teeth in retaliation, he carries on. He finds her clitoris and rubs mercilessly, and she can feel him smiling against her mouth when she jolts and presses into his touch. 

He uses his other hand to slide a finger inside her, and the chill of his skin manages to draw out the fires within her, to stoke them, but she is not burning, she is not losing herself to passion, she is focused on him and what he is doing to her. How he slides another finger in and lightens the pressure on her clitoris, and how he crooks his fingers and brushes them against the place that makes all thought rush from her mind. She breaks their kiss, purely by accident, as she arches her back to press him in deeper, and she moans loudly enough that she would feel great embarrassment if there were others besides her Champion nearby. 

Her Champion presses a third finger inside her and then he pulls them out, and then they are inside her once again. He creates a rhythm, and he keeps his fingers moving with an exciting dynamism he would not be able to achieve with his cock, as he stretches his fingers apart and twists them to hit new notes of pleasure with every new thrust. He rubs her clitoris in time with the press of his fingers inside her, and she rolls her hips to meet him in an attempt to prolong the sparks of uncensored lust that threaten to consume her each time. 

She braces her forearms on either side of his head, fists balled into his hair with a grip that he most certainly can feel. Her elbows brush against his shoulders, her breasts brush against his pectorals, her own long hair brushes past his cheek all the way beyond his collarbone, tossed to one side so as not to be as much of a bother, as she tries to ride his fingers. The angle makes it difficult, and though he thrusts with enthusiasm unparalleled, she yearns for him to go deeper.  

She is mostly silent, as he has to work to wring moans out of her, but he is not quiet, panting and groaning as if she were the one working him over. Though she is so incredibly slick that the wet noise of his thrusts almost overpower his vocalizations.

The length of his cock ghosts over her bottom whenever she pushes back on his fingers, and after this happens a handful of times, she whispers, “Stop.” He, ever obedient beneath her, stops, though he does not remove his fingers. 

She lets a few beats pass between them, though neither of them have pumping hearts for a measure anymore. “Your fingers are not long enough from this angle.”

“Do you want me to go down-?”

“No,” she interrupts. For reasons she dare not name, she wants to be face-to-face with him. Just once. If he will permit it. He often likes to find his pleasure with his tongue inside her sex, a enjoyable experience for them both that she will hardly begrudge him it, usually. “I want you to…” She grasps for the common word, the one he uses often and she uses never, and it takes her longer than she would like to recall it. “I want you to fuck me, Vax’ildan.”

His breath, his precious breath, leaves him as if she knocked the wind from him, his mouth hangs open, and his pupils are blown to the point where she cannot catch a glimpse of the brown of his irises.  _ “Fuck, _ ” he says, and she cannot tell if he is echoing her or reacting to her, but she suspects it is a combination of both. 

He drags his fingers out of her, and she rewards him with a soft sigh at the emptiness. He takes those three fingers and sticks them in his mouth as almost a subconscious gesture, almost as if he cannot go without tasting her in some manner. He moves his other hand as well, so as not to hinder her as she sits back and shifts herself over his cock. That hand comes to grip her bottom, and he digs his nails in as she teases him by sliding her folds over his cock. She slaps him lightly on the chest, a warning to  _ stop,  _ and he removes his nails, although his grip is still quite firm.

She takes his cock in one hand and gives it a couple of strokes, though her hands are not wet enough to dwell for long without causing discomfort, so she trails her hand down further and gently cups his sac in her palm, dancing her fingers along the tender skin and rolling him in her hand. Her Champion bites down on his fingers hard enough that she thinks he might break the skin. 

She considers exploring further still, the whispers she has heard about men’s pleasures and phallic devices coming into her mind, but she does not know enough, and she does not wish to push him in any direction that they have yet to discuss. Besides, she  _ does _ want him to fuck her. So she wraps her fingers around his cock once more and lowers herself onto him.

Immediately, she finds herself met with a problem. She cannot, due to the nature of their heights, keep him inside her  _ and  _ lie chest-to-chest with him. She feels foolish for not considering such practicalities, but then, she consoles herself, this is not usually how they have sex. She tends to ride him, whether it be his mouth or his cock.

Her Champion sees her struggling, and he laughs, mirthfully and without judgment, but he _ laughs _ all the same. Then he sits up and puts his hands on the sheets just behind him, fingers splaying to distribute his weight. He comes to rest at angle that puts him on eye level with her. His cock is still inside her. “Better?” he asks cheekily. 

She does not answer with words, but she cants her hips and rocks on him. Ultimately, it is slow-going like this; he cannot support her weight as he normally does, and her range of movement is limited by his torso. Still, she finds she does not mind the lack of speed and the slight awkwardness of the angle, for she can rest her arms on her Champion’s shoulders and align their bodies and look him in the eye, and she thinks this is worthy trade. He does not seem bothered, either, though she thinks he may be trying to puzzle together why she broke their routine by the searching expression on his face. 

Her lust dims to match their pace, becoming a slow-rolling glow, though still white-hot to match his ice. Her Champion, for his part, does not try to take more than he is given; therefore, it seems to catch them both by surprise when he finishes without a change of pace or position. It has been longer than usual, of course, noticeably longer, when this comes to pass. She watches his muscles tense and hears him let out a huff of air, and she feels him twitching within her, filling her. She bears down on him as he cums, and she remains even as he starts to soften. She would not admit as much aloud, but in the moment, she wants for her own orgasm, and she will not let him off without getting it.

Her Champion needs no prompting. He collapses into the pillows, as he is wont to do, and then he lifts one hand as if it takes an excess of energy and rubs her clitoris between her fingers until she reaches her peak. She throws back her head, eyes fluttering shut, and lets the sensation flow through her in its deliciously electrifying manner. It never lasts long enough for her liking, but such is the nature of the flesh. 

In the aftermath, she slides off of him and lays beside him. She waves a hand over both of them and rids their bodies and the sheets of excess fluids, a gesture which makes her Champion roll his eyes, but she can see that same spark of desire beyond his insolence. He is panting in the silence of the room again, and she is not making any noise whatsoever, and for an unknown amount of time, they simply lay there. 

He breaks the silence, eventually. “What if this is all I want?” 

She turns her head to try and measure his intentions by his expression, but she can only see his profile with any clarity. “This?” 

“Y- Sex,” he says. “I didn’t think I’d have to do anything after I died. I don’t have a plan. But I like sleeping with you, my Lady, if I can so as much without, I don’t know, crossing a line?” The corners of his mouth turn up, as if he is making some secret joke to himself. “It makes me feel alive.” 

“Then you may remain in my bed,” she tells him, but she knows he will not stay long. Soon, he will grow restless. He will need new lands, new challenges, new partners. He will hop between planes and try to draw the heaviness of death from his being, she knows this as intrinsically as she knows life and death. She almost wants to tell him that if he chooses to stay, she may never be able to let him go.  _ You are mine.  _

But she could not force him to stay. She does not believe it possible to defeat his will, even if she could bear to see him suffer needlessly at her command.

He turns his head so suddenly that she almost thinks he can hear what she left unspoken. “You were a mortal once, right?” 

She did not expect such a question, but she keeps her expression neutral. “Yes.” 

“What was your name?” 

The Matron of Ravens gave her name to the god who reigned before her, as many Champions have done in turn to her. She can never reclaim it, and she cannot bring herself to say it now, lest it summon an ancient horror from her past. But it still comes to her mind.  _ Rebekah.  _ She banishes the memory before it can ground itself and cause problems. 

“I cannot say,” she tells him. 

“Will I forget mine?” 

That, she cannot say. He will forget everything else, she knows, but in her observance of him, she has notice he holds fast to his name. He likes the way it sounds next to his sister’s and how it immortalizes his mother and defies his father; she imagines that even after he forgets who all three of them were, he will still cling to it as his last vestige of life. And he never offered it her, even after they were at peace with one another, though he knows it is a common practice of Champions. “I know not.” 

“What  _ do _ you know?” he asks, sounding somewhat like a petulant child. And in that moment, she comes to a realization she has been avoiding since she chose him over his sister, a potential that she overlooked. She has affected blankness and neutrality for so long, yet this brings upon her a numbness that she has not felt in two ages. But her Champion is still looking at her for answers, blissfully unaware of her unwanted revelations.

“Nothing,” she tells him, her voice as empty as was her first whisper to his anguished screams. “Truly, I know nothing.”


End file.
